From the Publisher

The national anthem was playing and on my right, the silver medal had just been awarded. I bowed my head to receive my gold medal ...

Well, if there had been an Olympic competition for door slamming, I would have won gold as a 15-year-old. I recall hearing my parents tell me, "Don't slam the door! How you shut the door to your home makes a difference."

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I was 16 years old doing 40 mph down a gravel road. I had been with my dad before when he had made his 1966 Ford pickup fishtail down the gravel road - that was as close as we ever got to an amusement ride. He made it look easy.

I pulled the wheel hard left and then right. Next, I saw the hydraulic jack fly in front of my face, and the 14-foot logging chain and double-bitted ax floating above the passenger seat.

I came to a stop and shut off that V-6 engine. I got out and threw the plywood, the windshield and the ejected contents of the cab into the truck bed. I jumped back into the cab, restarted the engine and listened to the bumper shave the tire during the half-mile drive home.

I entered our house, walked by the TV and shut it off, drawing an immediate reaction from my sister: "What are you doing? I was watching that."

I sat in Dad's La-Z-Boy Recliner and ran my hand through my hair, seeing pieces of windshield glass hit the floor.

"I just wrecked Dad's truck and he is going to kill me," I told my sister. I knew I had to start confessing. I called Mom at work, spitting out the news.

"Mom, I wrecked Dad's truck, and he is going to kill me."

Mom got home, held me tight and checked me from head to toe. She had called Dad and told him what happened. She sat down on her kitchen stool with a cup of coffee and cigarette. I paced, waiting for my judgment when Dad got home. I heard a car pull up the drive.

I jumped into the left chair at the breakfast nook. Dad's seat was the right one sitting within arm's length of Mom.

The car door shut, the backdoor opened, the backdoor closed - if there ever was a time to slam the door this was it. He gently closed the door. He walked over to Mom, patted her on the thigh, gave her a kiss as I had seen happen thousands of times, turned to me and asked, "Did you learn anything today?"

I swallowed hard and said "yes sir." He turned, walked into the living room and sat down in his recliner. I turned to Mom.

"Mom! Mom! Is that it? It can't be. He was going to kill me."

Mom gave me the comforting smile only a mother can. She didn't say a word.

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I have given a lot of thought to that moment with my dad. We never discussed the door closing, but as I have aged, I think I understand it. In our life, we have moments when everything could change, but it doesn't. A few inches to the right or to the left and your world is no longer what it was.

Poor judgment and being a teenager go together. As a parent, I have been frustrated and upset over a choice that brought a loved one within inches of doom and yet thankful doom was kept inches away. My dad was able to close the door gently with a thankful heart because his home stood the same as when he left it that morning.